Last Thursday was a rare treat in our house: one of those nights where the homework was done early, the dinner was cooked by someone else, and snow was in the forecast. The evening stretched out, molasses-lazy. My eldest daughter sauntered into the kitchen where I was spending some meditative time with the pots and a scrub brush.
“So,” she began lightly, “I wanted to talk to you about your pottymouth.”
I hummed. She does not approve of my penchant for cussing.
“When I came into your office today, you said the s-word. Cursing is evidence of a lack of creativity.” It is always a delight to hear your feeble parenting parroted back at you.
“A guy said something stupid on the radio this morning and then defended it by misquoting the dictionary. I was just frustrated, that’s all.”
She whisked a dishtowel off the shelf and began drying pots. “Lance Armstrong?”
“Are you talking about Lance Armstrong?”
“No. What are you talking about?”
She put the pot lid away before answering. “So,” she breezed, “maybe don’t watch the Lance Armstrong interview until after I’m in bed, okay?”